


Marry (verb)

by Northern_spies



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-25 20:47:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20377861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northern_spies/pseuds/Northern_spies
Summary: A cozy night is nearly ruined by a misunderstanding.Features Crowley passive aggressively drinking water and a new hobby for Aziraphale.





	Marry (verb)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Anna's Angels for the editing, especially Winwin who inspired this story with lots of Ineffable Wedding talk.

Crowley had never liked October much. Too damp, too dull. Yet this year October was earning its redemption through walks in vibrantly colored parks, shared warm drinks, and cozy nights in with a certain angel. Who was Crowley to argue with that?

Even though he had surrender to October’s appeal, he felt unsettled. He didn’t think Hell or Heaven were going to bother them any time soon, and it wasn’t like he missed being a demon; as a free agent, he had plenty of time to tempt and bless in equal measure when the mood struck him. No, if even October was pleasant, then things were simply _ too good _. Which meant something would come along to wreck his happiness any moment now. 

The most obvious target was his relationship with the angel at the other end of the terrible tartan sofa. Aziraphale, who in pre-apocalyptic times would have sat opposite him, now near enough that their knees jostled against one another each time they reached for the bottle of wine on the table. He had even ended last night’s dinner by pressing his lips against Crowley’s cheek. 

Six thousand years of wanting only made the having feel more tenuous. His stomach dropped at any hint he might lose what he’d gained. 

Which is why, when Aziraphale’s telephone rang late in the evening on a Thursday, Crowley could not help but focus all his attention on eavesdropping. 

“Hello, A.Z. Fell and Co., we’re closed,” Aziraphale answered. Crowley leaned in; Aziraphale had usually hung up by this point during previous calls. When he answered at all. 

“I see,” he said next. Crowley studied his face. He was frowning slightly but when his eyes met Crowley’s he brightened up considerably. Crowley returned the smile and settled back into the sofa. False alarm.

“No, well I can’t imagine anyone would object, surely you-” another pause. “True, it is an awfully public act, isn’t it?” Aziraphale’s face again fell into a frown. Crowley topped up his glass of wine and handed it to him. “Thank you,” he mouthed back, silently. 

What sort of public act would Aziraphale be getting up to which required interrupting their evening with a phone call? Crowley reviewed his mental list of Aziraphale’s favorite events. No festivals, operas, or holiday markets coming up. Perhaps a rare book show?

“Well, I’m still game if you are,” Aziraphale said. Crowley felt a shiver of pleasure at being able to just watch him like this. To no longer have to hide.

Aziraphale broke into a wide grin. “Oh, good! It’s decided then; I’m so pleased to do it.” He paused a moment and nodded. “Suppose if everything’s set, then, I’ll see you Saturday!” he said cheerfully. “Mmhmm, you too. Good night, my dear Julian.” 

“My dear” was ordinary; any name except “Crowley,” following it, less so. Crowley felt as though he’d swallowed a pound of nails.

Aziraphale hung up the phone and returned to the sofa. “Now, what were we discussing? I think you’d said something about jellyfish?” 

“Jellyfish,” Crowley muttered. _ My dear Julian _?

“Something about the nervous system, I think it was?” 

Crowley tried to marshal his concentration. “Well yes, as I was saying, Julians haven’t got brains.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Jellyfish, dear.”

“That’s what I said.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “No, I believe you said Julians.”

“Unlikely, I know a Julian when I talk about one.” Crowley rolled his eyes.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Maybe so, but I do believe _ jellyfish _are the topic at hand.”

“Right,” Crowley mumbled. “So, jellyfish haven’t got brains.” He paused, his uncooperative brain refusing to provide any output that didn’t involve asking “what’s Saturday,” or “who’s Julian,” or “if I were to lean over and kiss you right now, would you kiss me back?” He took a deep breath and pictured jellyfish. 

“Have _ Julians _ got brains, then?” he asked. He gritted his teeth. “Jellyfish, I mean.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “If you want me to answer your questions, you need only ask them properly,” he said. 

Crowley slumped back against the sofa in a way he hoped conveyed just how unimportant these questions were. “Right then: who is Julian?”

Aziraphale smiled. “A lovely young man from the neighborhood; he works as a professional chef.” 

Of course. Aziraphale had probably met him at a restaurant. Crowley focused his eyes on his wine glass. “Sounds delightful.”

“Very much so, he’s a fantastic conversationalist. Well-traveled and even better read! He’s working on his sommelier certification right now and we’ve had the most interesting conversations about our favorite terriors.” Aziraphale’s eyes shined with delight. “Why, he recommended the wine we’re drinking right now!” 

Crowley choked mid-sip. He set his wine glass down and picked up the bottle, examining the label. “What was the phone call about?”

Aziraphale puffed his chest out. “I have the tremendous honor of marrying him on Saturday!”

Crowley’s stomach fluttered. He couldn’t have heard that correctly. “Sorry, you’re what?” he asked as he tipped the bottle directly into his mouth.

“Marrying him! This Saturday, at St. James’s Park.” 

Crowley set down the bottle with a loud thud as a rush of dizziness sent his head into his hands. Azriaphale scooted closer and leaned down next to him. “Crowley, are you quite well?” He placed a hand gently on Crowley’s back. Crowley turned away, coughing to conceal his evasiveness. “Wine down the wrong port of entry?” Aziraphale guessed. Crowley seized the opportunity to wheeze a little more, adding to his cover. “I can’t understand a thing you’re saying. Let me get you a little water.” Aziraphale stood and crossed the room to retrieve a glass. 

Crowley rocked in his seat. Six thousand years surviving on the barest threads of hope only to find them burned alongside the bookshop, gone missing with Aziraphale. Then, at the end of the world, to find those threads had only been braided into something stronger. Something that was now apparently strong enough to hang him with. 

Aziraphale bent over him and softly cupped his cheek; his skin burned at the touch. “Here, dearest.” 

Crowley reached for the water automatically, sat up, and took a sip. He sloshed the liquid in the glass, briefly considering how a novice sommelier might drown in an open barrel of wine. 

Aziraphale sank down again next to him. “Goodness, you gave me a fright! Please, do be careful this time, and consider smaller sips.” 

Crowley knocked back the remainder of the glass in one gulp and raised his eyebrows at Aziraphale. Served him right. 

Azirpahale sighed. “I must learn that I ought to suggest you do the opposite of whatever’s best for you, so you’ll make a good decision every now and again,” he said. “Now, where were we?” 

Crowely cleared his throat and schooled himself into as ordinary a posture as he could manage. “You were, er. Telling me about Julian.” 

Aziraphale drummed his fingers across his thighs. “Where to begin? He has the most remarkable story.”

“Oh, does he now?” Crowley asked. Couldn’t possibly be more _ remarkable _ than a damned demon falling in love, could it? 

“Yes. Religious parents, you know the sort. Kicked him out of their home when he was fifteen; can you imagine, a human on his own at only fifteen? They still have an entire decade of brain development ahead of them at that age!” 

“Adam and Eve were far younger than that when She cast them out of the Garden,” Crowley said, dryly. He took a deep breath to steady his racing heart. 

“Different times,” Aziraphale replied, “and they had one another! Julian was all on his own. He took up work as a dishwasher, given how few options there are for such a young person. He’s terribly industrious. Convinced them to give him a try as a cook and it turned out he had a real flair for it!" He perched on the edge of his seat and continued. "From there he made his way into finer and finer establishments. Spent some time traveling, working everywhere he landed. And he educated himself in the libraries he encountered along the way!”

“Libraries,” Crowley echoed. Perhaps if only he’d spent more time in libraries. He chanced a brief glance into Aziraphale’s eyes and found them sparkling with joy in the low evening light. It had the unfortunate effect of making him appear even more ethereally beautiful than usual.

How Crowley had missed it before that instant, he had no idea. Probably he had been a fool to think those stolen moments between them had meant anything more to Aziraphale than generic, angelic acts of kindness. Because there was no mistaking it now; Aziraphale was in love and it wasn’t with Crowley. 

He could never have been worthy. Not for all the libraries in all of history. 

Aziraphale set his glass down and angled his knees toward Crowley. “Are you sure you’re quite well? Your color still hasn’t returned and you’re being much quieter than you usually are at this hour.”

Crowley ran a hand through his hair. “I’m fine. Just, go on.” Maybe this was the real damnation, watching the person you loved in love with someone else. With a sick sense of curiosity, he pressed on. “How’d you meet?”

Aziraphale gave a satisfied shimmy in his seat. “Well, I’m a bit of a known quantity in the neighborhood. A mutual acquaintance thought our interests were compatible and sent Julian my way. We met for tea and it was immediately clear that we were a good fit. By the end of our meeting he’d asked, and, well, I’m not really in the business of turning down sincere, sensible requests now am I?” He laughed. “Well, so long as it isn’t a request to buy one of my books.”

Six thousand years apparently had nothing on twenty minutes with the right human. Crowley watched intently as Aziraphale’s lips met his wine glass and curved upward at the taste. He contemplated the motion of his bow tie as he swallowed. Memorized every detail as an archive against the loneliness that would soon follow. “What about the ceremony?”

A dreamy look crossed Aziraphale’s face. “Autumn flowers, of course. _ Forever is Composed of Nows _ and _ Not Anyone Who Says _ for readings; suitably romantic.” He closed his eyes and hummed. “And the reception! Pumpkin soup, roasted salmon. Classic, white wedding cake.”

Crowley winced at the image of himself feeding Aziraphale wedding cake, something he hadn’t even realized he might, theoretically want. “Don’t need to get married to have all of that,” he said, failing to disguise the bitterness welling up in his voice. “Plenty of poetry books here. We can order in salmon.” 

“There’s no need to be so dismissive, dear boy!” Aziraphale objected. “Everything is better at a wedding. It’s the atmosphere. Love permeating every aspect of the evening; even the best of Shakespeare cannot match it.” He bumped his shoulder against Crowley. “Why, you should attend, perhaps you’d learn something!”

Crowley jerked away and crossed his arms. “I’m sure you’ve been dreaming of this day forever, wouldn’t want anything short of an angel there to ruin the mood. Pity you couldn’t have had a wedding sooner.” He shut his eyes against his mind’s unwelcome slideshow of moments in history they could had done the blessed thing. 

“While this wedding is perhaps uniquely exciting, I wouldn’t say I’ve been dreaming of it long at all. It isn’t like this is my first!” He grinned. “Who am I to pass up fun that ends with cake!” 

“How- how many?”

“Why, it must be dozens, perhaps even a hundred by now.”

A hundred? “How come I haven’t--?” Crowley swallowed down another wave of nausea. “Why don’t you, ah, ever introduce them to me?”

Aziraphale cocked his head to the side. “They’re only in my life such a brief period, compared to you.”

So Aziraphale could acknowledge that he’d at least outlast any human. He couldn’t decide whether to be sick or pleased. “A brief period? How brief?”

“Well, I suppose it really depends on the circumstances, doesn’t it? Even as little as ten minutes sometimes.”

“Ten… ten minutes.” Something wasn’t adding up. 

“Yes.”

Crowley stroked his chin. “So you’ve had divorces as well?”

“Oh no, that’s quite out of my area of expertise. I’m firmly in the ‘til death do us part’ business. There are exceptions, of course, where it is necessary for a marriage to end. But not any of mine, as far as I am aware.” He winked. “They tend to be quite blessed.”

Crowley snorted. “Lots of deathbed marriages then?”

Aziraphale looked down to where his hands were clasped in his lap. “Unfortunately, there was a period several decades ago where I had plenty of those. Weddings and funerals within a week of one another. Not many willing and able to do it around here at the time.” 

Crowley chewed his lip, considering whether any of the substances stronger than wine in Aziraphale’s cabinets might help him make sense of whatever was going on. “I just can’t believe you’ve been someone’s husband.” 

Aziraphale’s hand flew to his chest. “Goodness, no!”

Of course Aziraphale decided to notice he doesn’t really have a gender now of all times. Crowley waved dismissively. “Spouse, then.” 

“Darling, of course I haven’t!”

  
Crowley rubbed his ears, wondering if they were working properly today. “But you said you’ve married dozens of humans; a hundred even!”

Aziraphale tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. After a moment scanning Crowley’s face, he took a deep breath and spoke. “As a chaplain.”

The long-settled tightness in Crowley’s chest eased a measure. “A what?”

“Officiant, celebrant, clergyperson; a priest, if you absolutely must,” a light blush crept over his face. “I perform weddings, Crowley.” 

Crowley felt warmth well up from his center. He broke into a shaky laugh. “Chaplain.” 

Aziraphale gave a tentative smile back. “Yes? Come on, it can’t be that funny. Surely I’m just as qualified as any human to officiate at a wedding.”

Crowley’s laughter slid into a hiccuping sob of relief. He quickly choked it back. “A chaplain. Never a husband. I’m stupid.”

Aziraphale cautiously stroked Crowley’s forearm. “I’m afraid I’m quite dense as well. I think I may have misspoken.”

Crowley leaned into the touch. “You know, for someone who spends so much time thinking about words, you are terrible with them.”  
“At least I’m in good company. What should I have said instead?”

“Oh, I don’t know. ‘I’m performing Julian’s wedding,’ perhaps, or ‘I’ll be marrying Julian _ to his partner _ on Saturday,’ or anything that didn’t imply you were about to take a human husband, you absolute bastard!”

“I thought it was obvious! Really, what a silly idea. Marrying a human.”

Marrying a _ human _, Crowley thought. He was so pleased with the turn of events he didn’t even have a further argument in him. “Call it evenly dumb, then.”

  
Aziraphale nodded. “I find we’re getting awfully agreeable in our retirement. Now come closer, dear, you’ve been pushing me away all night!”

Crowley leaned into him until his head was against Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale brought an arm around him. 

Crowley flushed with happiness at the contact. “So, how long have you been, ah, chaplaining?” he asked. He wanted to see that sparkling joy in his angel’s eyes again now that he knew it came from a hobby instead of a lover.

“Ages and ages. It started when I was visiting India and I met the most distraught young woman at a temple. She was praying for divine intervention because she was desperately in love with a man from a different caste.” Aziraphale smiled up at the ceiling, lost in the memory. “They couldn’t find anyone to marry them. It felt right, to step up in the name of true love.”

Crowley snuggled in closer. “Yeah?”

“Yes. I even helped them relocate after, somewhere they could raise any children without suspicion.” He gave a contented sigh. “Then it was a pair of nuns in 16th century Germany. I was sure I’d hear from upstairs about that one since they left the church but it seems they never caught on.” 

  
Crowley wriggled down so that his head was in Aziraphale’s lap. He gazed up into the angel’s eyes, which were once again shining with satisfaction. All the tension had left him, replaced with the soothing rhythm of Aziraphale’s happy recollections. He might even attend Julian’s ceremony after all. “Who else?”

“All sorts of humans. So many societies have had such absurdly restrictive rules about who can marry based on the genders involved. Or languages or skin colors; and we musn’t forget class and religion!” Aziraphale shook his head as he threaded a hand into Crowley’s hair. “Nasty business, trying to control who gets to love who.” 

  
Crowley’s eyelids grew heavy. “Is very _ Romeo and Juliet _ of you, angel.”

Aziraphale hummed. “I suppose it is.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss into Crowley’s forehead. “What can I say, except that it’s been my pleasure to ‘love thy enemy’ from the start?”

“Pleasure’s mine, eternal foe,” Crowley murmured back. As he drifted off to sleep, he found himself annoyingly grateful for each of the current month’s thirty-one days; especially as he had quite the date for an upcoming October wedding. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
